Glimpses
by SunshineTuna
Summary: An attempt to fill in some of the gaps; there's so much we don't know. Brittana, begins during season 1.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This fic is co-written. The parts that are from Brittany's POV are written by the super talented Blackshield. Enjoy!

…

Santana didn't hear the music, she felt it. She felt it surround her, engulfing her mind and body in nothing but vibrations; she felt it touch her nerves and enter her substance.

_Tequila, vodka, and innumerable shots._

The beat rising in her chest compelled her body to move. The lights were constantly dimming and flashing, the noise of the people around her was both suffocating and arousing. Hands encircled her waist from behind, spinning her around and drawing her close. They were rough but firm, warm.

His breath landed near her cheek as he spoke. It reeked of alcohol; she knew hers must smell the same, if not worse.

"You look sexy tonight." He purred. One of his hands brushed across her ass and then re-gained its purchase on her hip, his fingers dipping under the edge of her Cheerios top. He leaned in close, the gap between their faces becoming negligible. The complement made her smile, although it resembled a drunken smirk more than anything else. She knew she looked sexy; she always did.

"Tell me something I don't know". Her words came out slightly slurred, syllables blending into each other. His lower body moved against hers in one continuous motion, prick clearly defined by the hem of his jeans. Santana's body mimicked his, using her sexuality and allure to draw him in further; a natural magnet.

A blur of red and white.

"God, you two should just get a room already." The voice was teasing but clearly annoyed.

It could have only belonged to Quinn. Santana's eyes reluctantly focused on the red and white apparition; her guess confirmed. She didn't look shitfaced.

"You shouldn't use god's name in vain, Fabray." She teased back, some venom settled in her voice. "Besides, shouldn't you be off _not_ having sex with your beau?" If Santana wanted to dry hump her boyfriend in the middle of a party, there wasn't a soul who could stop her. Puck's eyebrow shot up, Quinn's presence clearly interesting him. Santana draped an arm possessively over his neck—partially so she could keep her balance. Puck's lip curled into a smile at the contact.

It didn't take much to get on Santana's nerves—Quinn was accomplishing this without expending any effort.

Santana could only roll her eyes at her when she wouldn't leave. She yanked Puck down to her height by the shoulder of his sleeve. "C'mon, this is getting boring anyways", she growled. Quinn rolled her eyes and walked off, probably searching for Finn. Santana wasn't sure why she even bothered going to these parties if all she was going to do was sit cutely on Finn's lap as everyone else got drunk.

What was said was said. Santana knew Puck wanted something a little more than grinding. He gave her a saucy grin and his eyes flickered toward the staircase that led to his room. She grasped his hand as they walked through the energized cloud of party-goers—it was obvious where they were going together, and she wanted people to recognize it. A few people glanced at them as they passed by, seemingly envious of one of them. She knew they were both hot stuff; everybody did.

Brittany sat at the base of the staircase; she was talking to a couple of particularly muscular guys on the football team. Santana thought she knew them both—but she could hardly be expected to know _everyone_ she slept with. The jocks looked bored and horny; they were undressing Brittany with their eyes and making no attempt at subtlety.

"San!"

Brittany noticed her and Puck approaching. Her fingers were wrapped around the ledge of the bottom stair; her long legs were stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. Several empty red cups were strewn about the floor, some clearly belonging to the guys who were chatting her up.

Santana returned her enthusiasm with a wave and a smile. "Britt, hey." She paused, "I'll meet you in like an hour and we can get out of here." The two of them had an ancient tradition of going to and leaving every party together, riding out hangovers in each other's company.

"You can join us if you want," Puck offered, flashing his set of pearly whites.

Yeah, like that was going to happen. Santana just rolled her eyes and gave him a shove up the first couple steps. She looked down at Brittany, who seemed like she had just realized something.

"Have fun boinking!" She yelled up after them.

…

Say what you want about Noah Puckerman. He was arrogant; he was a jerk, a bully, and a bum. But_ nobody_ could say that he wasn't a great fuck.

Santana saw sex as a commodity, something to be traded for a nice dinner out or moving up a couple of ranks on the McKinley High social ladder. She usually received no great pleasure from it. Puck was the exception to this. His hands were immense and warm, and they always knew just where to touch to make Santana's whole body flush with heat, even if he didn't always allow her to finish.

With the mastery of someone who had done this many times before, Santana's hands unzipped and unclasped his pants, which soon slid off. There was no kissing yet, no gentle exchange of confessed love. Just getting down to business. She pushed him down further on to the bed and climbed on top of him as he scrunched her top off, and then went to work at pulling off her jeans and undergarments. Puck looked at her with satisfaction and licked his lips, eyes not leaving her exposed breasts. If she was going to do this, she was going to have to be better prepared than she was now; otherwise it was going to hurt like a bitch. She brought her face up to his and planted a kiss on his mouth, parting her mouth for him as she did so. Puck's eager tongue entered her mouth, the contact causing an electrifying sensation to crawl up her spine.

As their tongues were connecting, Puck took one of her breasts in his hand—not quite enough there for a handful- and gave it a light squeeze, eliciting a shiver from Santana. She would be content if this was all there was to having sex, but she knew Puck expected more from her. And this was about pleasing him, wasn't it?

Puck extended his arm and reached into his nightstand drawer with some difficulty, and pulled out a condom. Last time they had sex they were without one, but Santana had insisted he go buy some—she had sex with too many guys to take any chances, and birth control could only do so much. Santana snatched it out of his hand and tore it open with her teeth; she just wanted to get this over with.

If they were going to do this, they were going to do it her way. She turned around so she wasn't facing him, but was instead straddling him backwards. She never knew where to look when they were having sex—all she felt when she looked into his eyes was guilt.

She explored his length with her hand, sliding the lubricated condom onto him as she toyed. He was hard as a board—probably had been the whole night. Santana couldn't help but wonder if it even mattered who was on the receiving end of his sex. Finally, she parted her thighs, allowing him to enter her. Puck was content doing most of the work for now, and he bounced her up and down with rhythmic thrusts of his body. Santana angled herself forward in vain hope that she could have him hit her in a specific place, but it never seemed to work.

Soon they were both breathing heavy, but Santana knew she still had a ways to go before she succumbed to him. Puck, on the other hand, seemed ready to burst. She couldn't see his face, but she was well-accustomed to the signals his body gave when he couldn't hold out any longer. With a loud groan, he released into her, moaning a name. A name that wasn't "Santana".

For a moment all she could do was sit there, still around him, mouth agape. She slid him out of her and spun around, face livid and slightly flushed.

"The _fuck_ did you just say, mohawk?" But she knew what she heard. She wondered if Quinn knew too.

Puck didn't seem to know how to react. His hard-on was gone though, so that was something, Santana thought bitterly.

Defeated, she hopped off of his bed and began looking for her clothes, which were lost in the messy sea of laundry and porn magazines littered over Puck's floor.

"Sorry", he offered earnestly. "We should still do this again soon."

Santana tried not to let her hurt show on her face. She felt inadequate, jealous. Did Puck really have to think of Quinn Fabray while they were fucking? She could have any guy in the school, and she chose to sleep with him. He shouldn't be leaving her orgasm-less and miserable every time they hung out. Still, she wasn't sure she could let him go, especially if he had a thing for Quinn—he would just have to be kept on a tighter leash. They were the badass power couple in the school, and Santana was not going to give that up for anything. The alcohol was slogging around her mind, and almost reduced her to tears at these thoughts. She had to get out of here. She had to find Brittany.

"Whatever", she grimaced, avoiding eye contact. "I'm gonna go find Britt and leave."

She gave him a final glare as she wriggled back into her top and opened the door to his room. She knew her hair was probably messed up, but all it would do was boost her status if people knew she was up here having sex with Puck, so she left it.

She slammed the door shut, leaving Puck naked and alone at his own party.

…

Brittany lay on her side, feet swung off the edge of the bed, peering up at Santana with a soft smirk. Even in the darkness, she could see the edges of Santana's lips tip upward. "C'mon, Britt, let's get you changed before you fall asleep."

The words came as if through a fog. She protested with a cheerful whine, sloppy smile still spread across her face. "But 'm sleepy."

She caught the glint of the moonlight when Santana rolled her eyes, but Brittany knew the smile was still there. Familiar hands splayed around her ribcage, pulling her up to sit. Her head buzzed at the feel of Santana's fingers. "Trust me," Santana said, apparently unable to explain why it was important to change their clothes. Brittany pouted, but only faintly, and lifted her arms upward to let Santana pull the tank top from her torso.

Brittany fumbled with the button on her jean shorts. Her fingers seemed too big—or was it too small? Her lips were dry; she wet them with her tongue and tasted the vodka from the party. The air felt so warm and thick.

She blinked and watched Santana's hands swat her own away from the shorts. Santana gently and efficiently undid the button and zipper, then lightly slapped Brittany's thighs and stood. Brittany smiled. "Thanks," she whispered. The air suddenly seemed too thick for loud voices. Santana felt too close for loud voices.

Santana stood and opened a dresser drawer, tossing a t-shirt at the bed beside Brittany. After a few attempts to undo her bra, Brittany forced it over her head. It fell to the floor. She stared at it.

Movement drew her eyes to Santana. Brittany could pick out the dips in Santana's spine as she tugged off her shirt. The muscles in her back bunching when she reached around to her bra clasp. A shadow of her front when she pulled a sleep shirt over her head.

Brittany found her lips dry again and sucked them into her mouth, biting the bottom one and letting the top peek out again. She shimmied her shorts down to her ankles, then kicked them toward her other clothes as she pushed her head and arms into Santana's shirt. When she breathed in, it smelled like Santana.

She looked up and found herself meeting Santana's dark eyes. They were just shapes but she could feel them, looking into her. She could feel the questions there, the thoughts, close to the surface but trapped there.

So she grinned her drunk, sloppy smile again. "C'mon, San," Brittany murmured, toppling back onto her side. She curled her legs up and kicked one out, bumping Santana's shin gently. Santana was still for a moment, but Brittany could sense her smile.

Santana climbed across Brittany to the other side of the bed. Brittany grinned, triumphant, and rolled over. She could see the faint lines on Santana's legs from the skintight jeans. Santana flopped next to her and Brittany nuzzled the pillow, facing her.

"You smell like a brewery," Santana finally said. It came out with a laugh, breathy and low. Brittany smiled at the feel of Santana's voice brushing against her face. "Maybe you should've taken a shower."

Brittany shook her head into the pillow as decisively as she could. There wasn't a lot of energy left for her to muster. "Sleepy," she repeated, insistent.

A breeze rippled the curtain. She couldn't help but smile at the expression on Santana's face. Her eyes so soft. Smile gentle. Brow relaxed. "Yeah, you're right," Santana murmured, as if getting up to take a shower had been a serious suggestion. She reached out and pushed Brittany's bangs away from her face.

The curtain settled again, leaving them in the dark. Brittany wet her lips again. Was it the vodka that had made them so dry?

This was the moment. She knew it. "Thanks, San," she whispered. There was too much in the words to say them loudly. It was like all the feeling sat on top of them, constricting them in her throat. She swallowed. Santana's jaw shifted, about to answer.

Brittany leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the lips.

She drew back and rolled over, knowing Santana would be speechless for a minute or so. She sighed happily, then snuggled into the sheets and drew her breath in a slow, deep pattern.

She felt Santana's laser eyes in the back of her head, peering at her matted hair, trying to see into her thoughts. Soon, she felt the bed shift. She knew those laser eyes were now pointed at the ceiling. Bouncing back down into Santana's thoughts.

Brittany tried to imagine the butterflies in her stomach falling asleep one at a time. She fell asleep with them.


	2. Chapter 2

When she woke up, there was pain.

Santana's eyes opened cautiously into narrow slits—a slumbering blur lay beside her, arm draped delicately over her waist. Her head was pounding and her throat felt like the Sahara; the light that filtered in through the window seemed blinding. Recollection of last night's events slowly trickled into consciousness, her mind grasping onto each moment one at a time.

Sleep had greeted her reluctantly last night; she had lain still and awake for what seemed like hours after Brittany fell asleep. Never before had she been so mystified by her best friend's actions. Sure, they had kissed before, but it was usually for the sole purpose of titillating a drunken Puck. There was nothing emotional or tender about it, it was just part of their image.

So she thought.

Surely it was just Brittany being- well, Brittany. That had to be it. Their friendship had always been a handsy one, and the two of them never hesitated to link pinkies or give each other backrubs in public. The alcohol was just working her system; she hadn't realized what she was doing. Maybe she meant to place the kiss on her cheek or forehead, but missed.

Yeah, that had to be it.

She wouldn't bring it up, Brittany had probably forgotten anyways. It didn't matter, and it was a wasteful thing to dwell on. Besides, it wasn't like the kiss was horrible or anything; despite smelling like a brewery, Brittany's lips were soft, and the speed of the contact made it feel like it never actually happened. _Maybe it hadn't._

Just as the thought of Brittany entered her mind, the blonde laying beside her began to stir; the tranquil tangle of limbs under the covers started to unwind. Santana hadn't realized how much of Brittany's skin was against her own until she moved away, leaving the air to bring shivers to her legs.

"'Tana."

It came out as a breathy grumble rather than a greeting. A small smile met her lips, in turn causing Santana to smile back.

"Mornin', Britt."

She was surprised how scratchy her voice sounded; both of them could use a glass of water and some aspirin, she guessed.

Santana splayed her arms out behind her and lifted her head and chest up, trying to keep the room from spinning around her. It was easier said than done. Brittany, who wasn't one to take forever getting out of bed in the morning, practically sprung herself out of the covers and sprawled her endless legs off the bed. She only sat for a few seconds before toppling back over, a disoriented groan escaping her throat. The scene made Santana's smile grow wider—nothing about it was surprising.

"I'll go get us some water."

Performing a slower version of Brittany's movements, Santana allowed her legs to dangle off of the bed for a moment before daring to stand. She trudged into the bathroom—conveniently connected to her bedroom—feeling like her legs were encased in jell-O. She faltered over the toilet for a moment, thinking that her dinner might be about to make a second appearance.

It didn't seem like Brittany was acting any differently—well, except for being hung-over. Relief spread over her, she hadn't even realized she was carrying the weight of last night on her shoulders. She was beginning to think her mind really did make the whole thing up in a drunken stupor.

_Not that her mind would do that. It wouldn't have a reason to._

She filled up two glasses of water, drank from one and sloshed the liquid around in her mouth, swiftly spitting it out in the sink afterwards and cursing Puck as she did so. At least she finally had some leverage over him. Unbelievable. Rolling her eyes at the increasingly vivid memory, she padded back into the bedroom with a glass in each hand.

Brittany seemed to have found her purchase on the room, as she was sitting up now, watching Santana come back with thankful eyes. She drank greedily before attempting to speak.

"It's Saturday…" Brittany spoke in a tone reserved only for topics of the utmost importance, "that means pancakes, right?"

Of course that would be the first thing she thought of. Santana struggled to suppress a grin.

"Coach wouldn't allow it. We need to be in shape." Santana spoke with authority, surprising Brittany with her seemingly harsh tone. "So yeah, it means pancakes." Finally the grin broke out of her lips; her face lit up with laughter.

…

Once the prospect of pancakes was brought up, it didn't take long for Brittany to get showered and put some clothes on. It wasn't unusual for them to shower at each other's houses, and neither of them thought it strange to get dressed in front of the other.

This morning, however, Santana had noticed Brittany's wandering eyes. It didn't even seem like the girl was making any attempt to conceal what she was doing—she felt her gaze run down her body, taking in every detail, every nook. It was the first time she had ever felt bashful or self-conscious about not wearing any clothes in front of her best friend. She had never scrambled to put her clothes on so fast.

_Had it always been this way? Had she just not noticed?_

Maybe Brittany was just checking to see if she was dressed yet… and maybe she was too hung-over to realize she was staring. There couldn't have been anything sexual about it. Brittany wasn't—that way. Neither of them were.

…

Brittany's legs hung impatiently over the edge of the counter, her face glowing cheerfully. Santana stood next to her, pouring pancake batter over the stove. Before the two of them joined the Cheerios squad freshman year, having pancakes on a Saturday morning was a commonplace ritual for them. Now they considered it a treat—they were really only supposed to be eating (or drinking, rather) Sue's Master Cleanse, but there was no way that a human being would actually be able to sustain themselves on a diet of that alone. That didn't stop Brittany from trying though—Santana actually had to intervene last year when she found out that the girl was adding sand and rocks to her shake.

The memory made her lips curl into a subtle smile.

"What're you thinkin' about?" Brittany's usual innocent tone.

"Nothing." Though her response seemed cold on the surface, there was warmth to be found in her voice, and Brittany no doubt picked up on it, as she smiled back with curiosity gleaming on her face. It was like she knew.

Santana wasn't sure why she didn't just tell Brittany that she was thinking about the shake incident. It was no secret. She supposed she just wanted to focus on the pancakes. There was still plenty of batter left.

The finished ones were flipped on to a plate, and Brittany looked at them like they were the first morsels of food she had seen in a month. She was going to wait for Santana to finish though.

Santana poured more batter, methodically connecting three of the batter globs together by failing to put distance between them. She glanced at Brittany through her peripheral, a smirk emerging on her lips. As if on cue, Brittany launched herself off of the counter and engulfed Santana in a tight hug, excitement radiating off of her.

"You're making me a mouse!"

"Mhm!" Santana was quite proud of her pancake-making abilities; she knew Brittany was also impressed.

So impressed that she was still hugging her. One of Brittany's arms disappeared behind Santana's shoulder—she was _sure_ she felt her hand playing with her hair, coiling a strand around her finger. Her other hand was close to her thigh. Uncomfortably close. Their faces were inches apart, and she could feel Brittany's breath on her cheek. Brittany's eyes darted to her lips for a moment. The embrace began to feel constricting; heated, and Santana wasn't sure how to escape it.

"I need to flip the pancake." Her voice was distant, metallic.

"Oh, okay…" Brittany's arms dropped to her sides and she took a step back, eyes seeded with something that resembled disappointment.

Santana gripped the spatula as if her life depended on it; the grip on the handle was hurting her fingers. It scratched against the pan as it flipped the mouse over; the noise acting is a momentary distraction. The room was silent otherwise, and she could sense Brittany standing a few feet behind her.

She put the mouse on the pancake plate and poured the remaining batter on the pan. Last one. Once this one was done they would look at each other.

Santana felt a gentle hand brush against her shoulder, settling itself lightly over where her shoulder joined her neck. Her eyes widened.

"Did I… did I do something wrong, San?"

Her chest moved as if sighing, but she didn't feel herself take a breath. Guess they were going to do that talking thing that Brittany loved so much. Santana spun around, hesitantly, and looked at the floor.

"No, of course not."

And she hadn't. Brittany's behavior hadn't been at all abnormal in the past couple days—she suspected the issue was her own, for some incomprehensible reason. She was just acting strange because she was _imagining_ things between them that probably weren't there. It was ridiculous. Ridiculous and frightening.

"Then why won't you look at me?"

The sadness in Brittany's voice forced Santana to do just that. Her brow was furrowed in confusion, like a little kid who didn't understand how something complicated worked.

"I'm looking at you now", she paused, "you didn't do anything wrong." She felt it necessary to repeat herself—both for her own benefit and Brittany's. Unfortunately, the frown was still lingering on her face; Brittany knew something was wrong, and she was saddened by it. She could read Santana like a book, and Santana knew it. There was probably no use lying or hiding things.

"Let's just eat, okay?" Santana forced a smile onto her lips, knowing that Brittany wouldn't easily be fooled into thinking that it was the real thing. Still, she hoped that she would let it go for now. It wasn't even like it was a big deal; Santana was sure that within a couple days everything would be back to normal. Then Brittany could hug her to her heart's content. She was positive the problem was in her mind, drummed up out of boredom and her recent failed hook up with Puck. It was so obvious.

Brittany's nose crinkled.

"San, what's that smell?"

Santana took a whiff of air and realized what Brittany was talking about—smoke was beginning to rise in small billows from the stove.

"Fuck!"

Santana's eyes widened in surprise, and she shook her remaining Brittany-related thoughts from her head as she darted to the stove, ready to throw the smoldering pancake. The fire alarm hadn't gone off yet; hopefully it wouldn't. With astonishing speed, the pancake, now resembling a hockey puck, became airborne as Santana sent it spiraling into the sink with her spatula. With a sigh of relief, she slid open a window, hoping that it would get rid of the offensive smell.

Brittany observed all of this with her head cocked.

"That's not how we usually make pancakes."

…

Brittany dragged a wedge of pancake through the syrup on her plate, glancing between her food and Woody Woodpecker with less enthusiasm than usual. She lifted the bite to her mouth with an expert twist of the fork and chewed. She risked a glance at Santana.

She froze. Santana was looking at her. Laser eyes.

Syrup leaked under her tongue inside her mouth. Brittany forced her jaw to chew, tugged back the corner of her lip, swallowing the pancake and the blush that threatened to rise on her cheeks. "What?" she asked. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd caught Santana looking at her. Even Lord Tubbington could count how many times, and he always got confused with numbers higher than nine.

Santana just shook her head and turned back to her plate.

A loud crash came from the television. Brittany knew Woody had just mashed some guy's feet in the stadium chairs at a baseball game. She'd seen all the episodes before.

Santana didn't even look up at the noise. She dipped a bite-size square of pancake in her small, controlled puddle of syrup. Her eyes were dark like the clouds outside. Brittany wondered which one would rain first.

"What's wrong?" Brittany asked. The words came out strained and scared. She'd seen Santana upset before, but never like this. Never at her. "You look like my sister did when she found out the tooth fairy is actually Stuart Little."

Santana's lips dipped into a small smile, despite the obvious chaos going on in her head. Brittany saw the shadow of a dimple—a bit of a relief—but her forehead stayed pinched in a frown.

She watched Santana's eyes glaze over. Scrutiny turned inward. Choosing a response from a lot of options. The thought made Brittany feel nervous, but she couldn't risk tearing her eyes away, even to saw off another bit of pancake. She couldn't risk missing anything Santana said, and that meant keeping watch over every inch of that smooth, conflicted face.

The smile had faded already. Santana drew in a deep breath, more ragged than she would have admitted, and met Brittany's eyes with a small, clearly forced smile. "I'm just—distracted," she said. Lie. Santana was clearly distracted, but that wasn't the question. Brittany waited. "Last night," Santana began—or maybe finished, because she seemed to think better of explaining and instead let her pause seep into silence.

"Puck?" Brittany asked.

Santana's dark eyes flashed to hers. _Lie_, they said. "Yeah," Santana lied back. Like it was payback. Like the lie mattered. Like they needed to say what they meant to understand each other. Like the real conversation wasn't happening underneath.

Brittany studied every twitch and flicker. "You weren't up there long," she said. _Something went wrong_, her eyes whispered. _But that's not why you're upset_.

Only Santana could answer all three at once. "Puck was _not _on top of his game," Santana answered with a smirk of condescending distaste. But her eyes darted away. Back to her pancakes. Back to Woody Woodpecker. _Puck did something wrong_, Brittany read in the crease by her eyelid and the line of her mouth. _And then you…_

Brittany forced her eyes back to her pancakes. She could feel her heart in her throat, so she ate another bit of pancake and tried to swallow both down. Should she say something? Words were never their strength. Maybe that was why she…

Brittany turned her head and looked at Santana in profile. She had it. The layered words Santana would understand. The only way she was allowed to say it. "I could tell."

Dark eyes. They flicked between Brittany's—right and left, as if her eyes weren't sending the same message, as if going back and forth would speed up the translation—and she could see them soak it all in. _I tried to make you feel better_, Santana could read. The real reason—_I just wanted to kiss you_—could be buried. Like she knew it would be.

A small smile. Something lingered beneath—something responding to Brittany's Real Reason—but the smile was better than the sickening shock of Santana stiffening in her arms, the burned pancake, Santana bothering to turn away to put a bra on in the morning. Maybe it wasn't _all _ruined. "Yeah," Santana finally said. "I guess you could."


	3. Chapter 3

(A/N: This chapter has a little bit more plot and a little bit less Brittana—until the end, at least. I promise you'll get a lot more in the next chapter. Another reminder that the parts that are written in Brittany's POV are by Blackshield, who is currently writing an amazing Brittany the Vampire Slayer fic, which everyone should check out.)

…

"We're auditioning for glee club."

Santana sat, dazed. She saw the glee club perform earlier that day in the auditorium, and it didn't take a Cheerio to know that the club was full of losers—no, worse—the people that _losers_ picked on. She was above that; all three of them were. So, why then, was Quinn Fabray, head Cheerio and sometime friend, practically ordering them to help her join? Quinn's voice cracked with disparity, Santana's scheming mind immediately understood her motive—she wanted to make sure Finn wouldn't stray. He'd be a fool to do that anyways, she thought with an internalized roll of her eyes.

"Nuh uh, hold up," Santana raised a finger with an intimidating shake of her head, ponytail swishing, "I don't take orders from you, Fabray." Maybe if Blondie had asked nicely.

Brittany, although she didn't seem to mind the order, prodded Quinn with her hand as if to check that she was the real deal. She looked expectantly at Santana, "I know it's the real Quinn because she's so soft," she explained, deadpanning. Santana knew Brittany would go along with whatever she chose to do—they were a unit.

Quinn rolled her eyes and swatted Santana away. "I'm not about to let Rachel steal my boyfriend. I'm joining, and you two are going to help me." Her eyes looked like they were capable of brimming with tears if given just a tiny push.

Santana filled in the blanks—the words that were implied but not said. _I'm head Cheerio and you need to do what I say. _And, beneath that:_ I thought you were supposed to be my friends._

Santana crossed her arms in stubborn compliance. Sure, she was top dog around here, but she wasn't sure she would _stay_ up there if she suddenly stopped listening to Quinn. Besides, there was something to be said about sticking together, not that she would admit it to anyone.

"Fine. But only because I like being the hottest person in the room." It wasn't a lie.

Brittany nodded in agreement (_what_ was she agreeing with?), and Quinn smiled crookedly, looking pleased that she pulled rank without Santana throwing a violent fit.

"We've so got this."

…

Santana drew her face toward the space where her palms came together, a sharp breath of air readying in her mouth. Her feet lazed on the back of the chair in front of her, an anticipating smile growing on her face as she spat harshly into the straw her hands clung to.

The snoozing colossus spun around, brow furrowed in fury. A wet gob of paper stuck stubbornly to his hair.

"Santana! Would you just stop?"

A haughty response sat on her lips, but before she could further enrage the giant, a voice from the front of the class demanded attention.

"Finn Hudson, stop chatting with Santana and start paying attention. Your test scores could certainly use it." She rapped twice on the board, waking up half the class.

At that, Finn flushed red and gave Santana a glare before facing his desk again. The spitball was still secured in his messy mop of brown hair.

Santana stuck her tongue out at him and snickered, well aware that he wasn't paying attention anymore. English was her only class that she didn't have with Brittany; at first she welcomed the break because of their recent tension, but now that it was a reality she found herself bored beyond belief. Even shooting spitballs at Finn was starting to bore her, and she considered that to be one of the best parts of her day.

She continued kicking his chair as she eyed the clock.

Once she was freed by the ringing bell, Santana was surprised and somewhat dismayed to find Quinn waiting outside of her classroom, arms crossed like she had been there for days.

"Waiting for Finny-boy? His hair could probably use a brush."

Quinn rolled her eyes, apparently expecting the comment. "Actually, I was waiting for you. Coach wanted to see us about something—I think Brittany is already with her. And stop shooting spitballs at Finn; are you like, twelve now?"

Santana wasn't quite sure how to take this. Coach Sylvester only asked to see her Cheerios privately when she was either brutally kicking them off the squad, or blackmailing them. She didn't think Coach would readily part with Quinn, but she and Brittany seemed expendable by comparison. A shudder passed through her.

"Fine, let's go." Her muscles tensed in anxiety, but she followed Quinn down the narrow hallway to Coach Sylvester's foreboding office.

…

She noticed Brittany before she noticed Coach Sylvester. Brittany was huddled onto one of the three chairs in front of the desk, legs trembling like leaves and eyes full of fear. Santana knew how badly she could be intimidated by their Coach—even she herself was, occasionally. Running on instinct, Santana immediately took the middle seat next to Brittany and placed a comforting hand on the dancer's quivering knee. She wasn't sure why they were called in here, but Brittany apparently believed it to be bad as well. Sure, taking the middle seat meant that she would have direct eye contact with her coach, but she knew Quinn wouldn't pay the same gentle attention to Brittany that she did.

Quinn, looking completely unfazed, took the remaining seat and laced her fingers together over her lap. Typical, Santana thought; she knows Sue won't do anything to her head Cheerio.

Sue ignored the three of them for a minute, and focused on a stack of papers in front of her, which she was scribbling on with a red pen. As if she just realized that others were in the room with her, she looked up from her work in mock surprise and gave each of them a glance that said they were wasting her precious time. Brittany jumped up in shock as Sue slapped a hand on the papers and pushed them violently into a corner on her desk.

"Ladies," She finally greeted them, "I bet you're wondering why I've called you here." She paused, and then motioned toward Quinn and Santana, "well, at least you two are."

Santana saw Brittany look down, out of the corner of her eye. Her hand still rested on her knee, and she made sure to give it a reassuring squeeze. _You're smart, Brittany. Don't listen to her._

On the other side of her, she saw Quinn locking on to Coach Sylvester like a laser, ready for orders. Santana's hand drifted away from Brittany as she tried to imitate her. All it would take for Quinn to lose her spot on top is one screw up; one screw up, and Santana would be right there to replace her. She wanted Sue to know this. She should have been picked in the first place; it wasn't fair that Quinn effortlessly achieved everything she wanted.

Sue began rolling out her monologue, satisfied that the three of them looked ready to obey her every whim.

"I heard about your little stint at glee club." Her voice shook with something that seemed equal parts rage and pride.

Fear shone in Quinn's eyes; Santana smirked at the sight. Maybe they wouldn't have to join after all.

"You're going to be my inside ears." She paused, as if contemplating something important.

"Girls, do you know why I send my tracksuits to Europe to be dry-cleaned? Not only because the people who work at American dry-cleaners have unintelligible Asian accents that grate on my ears like drowning cats-in fact, I have my suspicions that their barking stresses the material-but more importantly, it's because the soft, sweet tumble of European low-energy washing equipment does something divine to the polyester while safeguarding a beautifully tailored fit. Cheerios, I am not about to stand back and watch as _glee_ club takes away what is rightfully mine."

Santana didn't understand the relevance of this ramble, but she knew how to choose her battles.

Sue leaned over her table, somehow looking menacingly at all three of them in the eyes at once.

"I want you to bring glee club down." Her voice was a growl, she commanded with her teeth bared.

…

Brittany ran strands of Santana's hair through her fingers. She moved as slowly as possible. Santana had been acting strange all day, so even though this is a normal ritual for them, she was careful.

Santana was watching something on television—one of the reality shows, with women all makeup and big hair and men all bravado and white, white teeth—and she talked, asking why they would say one thing and do another; why they would lie when there's a camera on them.

Brittany didn't need to listen; Santana was just talking. Her voice relaxed and low, tightening up when she got angry at the strangers on the screen. Brittany lifted her hand and began at Santana's scalp, following her dark hair from roots to tips. Her touch seemed to soothe Santana, whose easy ranting quieted as Brittany pet.

After a few minutes of quiet—just the sharp words from the television, still on low volume, lashing out when someone yells—Santana shifted under Brittany's fingers. She pulled them back, reluctantly, and Santana twisted to pull her backpack over. "I guess we should do some work," she said.

Brittany folded her legs underneath her and watched Santana survey the books in her bag. She realized Santana stayed still longer than she used to—like it took an extra minute for her to decide they should stop.

Before Brittany could tease any meaning from it, Santana was looking up at her with those deep, dark eyes and saying something.

"Huh?" Brittany hummed, raising her eyebrows slightly to show she had just begun to listen.

Santana smiled. Brittany never needed to explain or apologize; Santana just repeated herself. "Have you done the history?"

Brittany shook her head with a small smile. When would she have done it? They had history together, near the end of the day. And why would she do it without Santana?

Santana lifted herself from the floor and lied down next to Brittany on the bed, belly long and lean against the mattress, spine curving gently beneath her uniform. She opened her notebook, braced the worksheet against it, and freed a pen from the spiral of the notebook. Brittany leaned away, reluctantly, to retrieve her own copy from her bag on the floor.

She righted herself and glanced at Santana and fought to keep from freezing.

Santana was looking at her hip and her leg and the muscle she turned to get her books.

It was hard to convince herself, in that first instant, but when Santana's eyes pulled to hers, she knew. Santana's eyelids flickered and the skin near her hairline, a lighter patch, tinted dark.

Brittany was still reeling, but Santana had buried her blush and her eyes in the history worksheet.

Brittany let her breath out through her nose. "Are you excited for Glee Club?" She couldn't bring herself to talk about their homework—not when Santana just _blushed_.

Santana looked up at her, brows pushed together, lips pursed. "Why would I be?" Her words weren't harsh—not like they would be, if they were directed at someone else—but there was an edge in them, something sharp. The sound of Santana hiding something.

Brittany shrugged. Gentle. "I dunno, it seems like it could be fun," she said.

"Fun?" Santana looked at her like that would never have occurred to her. Like it couldn't possibly matter. "Even if it doesn't drag us down to Losertown instantly, we probably won't have to stay long," Santana said. She was struggling to see it from Brittany's angle, but she couldn't quite.

"But you like to sing," Brittany pointed out. "And dance. We just sang in the car like half an hour ago."

Santana gave her the affectionate smile she used when she might've rolled her eyes at somebody else. "That's not what it's about," she said, and Brittany couldn't figure out why not. Before she could ask, Santana was turning back to the worksheet, saying, "And, anyway, how long can it really take for Quinn to get Finnocence back from Hairy-Berry?"

Brittany looked at the worksheet, feeling disappointed somehow. Why won't you give it a chance? She wanted to ask. "I hope we get to sing something good, first," she said instead.

Santana turned her head to offer another smile, genuine and a little embarrassed. "You just want to dance," she said like she was teasing. Brittany knew she was apologizing.

She smiled back and poked Santana's shoulder. "You want to sing. And you should," she added, firm, when Santana's lips parted to reply. "You have a great voice."

She could have sworn Santana's eyes flicked to her lips, but they were back up to her eyes before she could be sure.

She could see _thanks _on Santana's tongue, but aloud, all Santana said was, "We should really get started."


	4. Chapter 4

_Will this hour ever be over?_

Santana was only half-listening to Mr. Schue's droning. _Sectionals blahblahblah Journey blah nationals blahblahblah._ Nothing new. He said the same thing practically every day—somebody really ought to tell him that his speeches lose their meaning if he lets one rip every time he opens his gob, Santana thought with a roll of her eyes.

As always, Brittany sat next to her. Every so often they exchanged knowing glances, silent agreements regarding Rachel Berry's infantile outfits, and how "New Directions" sounded entirely like something else depending on the context and who was saying it. Brittany's soft eyes met her own. She felt them searching for information, studying her.

Lately, Brittany had always seemed to be touching her. Sometimes there were excuses, but just as often there weren't. Linked pinkies were nothing new to them; now there was scarcely a moment where their hands were free. Massages after Cheerios practice and hair-braiding after school were becoming the rule rather than the exception. Santana would never admit that it was kind of nice, though she was sure something in her eyes was giving her away, otherwise her best friend would have stopped. And she didn't want that to happen.

The corner of Brittany's mouth curved. She looked away. Apparently her eyes found what they were searching for. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, she draped both of legs gracefully over Santana's lap, keeping unwavering eye contact with Mr. Schue as she did so. The feel of her skin snapped Santana back into reality; she was in the chorus room once again, wondering when the hell Schue would stop yammering._ Had she been staring at Brittany?_

She made a conscious effort to think about something else—anything else that didn't have to do with the incredibly lithe legs that were resting on top of her thighs.

It didn't work. She could feel their weight, their slight movement as Brittany fidgeted.

Santana peeked at Brittany only to find that she was still looking nonchalantly at Mr. Schue, seeming to take in every word he was saying. Her head nodded slightly. She couldn't figure out why this was working her up so much—clearly it had been too long since her and Puck had had a good rumble. _How was nobody else noticing that the room was suddenly hotter?_

For the first time in her life, Santana was thankful that Rachel Berry had something she wanted to say. With a clap of her hands, Berry stood to address the rest of the club. All eyes darted to her, many in anticipating annoyance.

"I just wanted to say that with the wonderful new additions of Quinn, Brittany, and Santana, we almost have the full number of members necessary to perform at Sectionals! I have high hopes for New Directions!" She finally paused, Santana was surprised she could get so many words out of a single breath of air. "Also, I would be honored if you would consider me as the primary candidate to sing a solo at Sectionals. I think you'll find that my years of tutored voice training have paid off. "

Santana wanted to throw something at her. Brittany looked at her with those eyes. Those eyes that said: _San, don't do anything that'll get us kicked off._

She would settle for her trademark vicious words.

Before she even knew what she was doing, Santana picked herself slightly off of her seat, regretfully knocking Brittany's legs forward. An offended expression settled over her face, and she turned to Mr. Schue with a scowl.

"Okay, I don't know about the rest of these losers," her hand motioned around the room, intentionally skipping over Brittany, "but I'm not about to harmonize in the background for _Susan Boyle_ over there." She threw a nasty glance over her shoulder at Rachel, and crossed her arms in indignation.

It seemed like Mr. Schue didn't quite know how he should deal with Santana's outburst; his face contorted in agonized discomfort as he searched for words. "Well, that's okay Santana, we still have a month to think about it."

Santana faltered, realizing she had basically just let a room full of people know she cared about glee club, or at least cared enough to not want Berry hogging all the solos. She saw Quinn quirk an eyebrow at her and Mercedes nod her head in determined agreement. Keeping her arms crossed as a defensive barrier, Santana sat back down, only bothering to look at Brittany. Like always, her eyes said it all.

_I told you glee wouldn't be so bad._

…

She had to find Puck.

The two of them had been distant ever since _the event_ at his party, and although Santana could hold grudges like it was her job, she knew it was in her best interest to let this one slide. Yesterday she caught herself zoning out while looking at Brittany's legs- and she _had_ zoned out, she wasn't staring _intentionally_ or anything—and just earlier something similar had happened again.

She wasn't _that way._

Which was why she needed Puck—she needed something warm beneath her, something to make that persistent heat go away.

Luckily, he wasn't so hard to spot. His mohawk sailed above the ocean of students like a shark fin gliding through the water; people had the tendency to move out of Puck's path, hoping to avoid any trouble—he was notorious for his temper and reputation. However, nobody wanted to miss any drama or hall-fights either, so he usually had a small entourage of badboys and gossip-seekers trailing behind him, ready to get in on any action.

Unfortunately for Santana, today one of those people was Jacob Ben Israel.

Suddenly, she was looking down through the lens of an expensive-looking video camera that was crowding her face; a microphone was nearly shoved down her throat.

"Santana Lopez! What do you have to say about the rumor that you joined Glee Club? Does this make us fellow social lepers?" His voice was eager and shrill, and his breath smelled like rancid meat as it congealed near her face.

She shoved him backwards against a locker, eyes narrowed in annoyance. She wanted to slap his face off, to see his features slide painfully off of his head and create a repulsive puddle on the floor. Something she could stomp on. Santana knew she was backed into a corner—not answering him would fuel even more rumors, which was something she obviously did not desire. No, she had to answer; staying silent was not an option. She could see Puck watching everything with amusement, ready to pummel Jacob if given the word.

Santana's hands rested confidently on her hips—a stance she inherited from her mother—as she set things straight.

"First of all, Jewfro, come near me with that thing again and you'll wake up one day and find you're missing several vital organs. _Me oyes?"_

He gulped.

"Good. It's true I joined Glee Club, but everyone knows I'm too popular for it to actually matter. I'm still dating the hottest guy in school." At that, Puck strolled over to her and aimed a predatory grin in Jacob's direction.

"Hey baby," he whispered in her ear. His hand brushed against her clothed breasts, not caring that they were being filmed.

Santana smiled into the video camera, as if her point had been made—and it had been. It didn't take long for Jacob's interest to dwindle. Santana heard him mutter something about Puck being lucky before seeing him skulk off—her attention was elsewhere at the moment.

Puck ran a finger up her neck, eventually using it to prop her chin up. The crowd began to dissipate.

"So," she eyed him with dramatized desire, "I was looking for you. Free tonight?" More of a demand than a question.

"Maybe. Depends what you have in mind." Santana smiled inwardly at his response; he could be kind of cute sometimes. She knew he was only trying to play it cool; there was no way he could ever say no to her. He was powerless to do so.

"I think you know." Her tongue dipped slightly out of her mouth, sliding across where her lips met. She was met with an encouraging grin. Something about it bothered her. Or maybe it was just her.

"I'll come by later."

Hearing her own voice distressed her; something lurking in it sounded eerily like defeat.

…

Brittany walked her bike over to the motocross track and worried her lower lip. She couldn't see Santana anywhere. Santana always came to Thursday practice so they could study for math class afterward.

She tried to focus on her teammates and listen to the safety instructions—she always listened, in case they changed, though they never did—but her eyes danced along the horizon, where she could see the two-lane road and the tall train station in the distance. She couldn't see Santana's dark car or her dark hair.

On the course, her mind hummed like the bike between her legs. She tried not to articulate her concern—what if Santana didn't come? What if she was angry about—what happened?

What had happened?

She felt like she was about to fall off her bike at the turns, the way her insides shifted around when she leaned in, but her body brought her smoothly upright for the thousandth time. Sometimes she almost wished her body could fail her sometimes; wished that fear in the pit of her stomach would finally connect with the dirt, with the concrete, with anything.

That clenching panic always stuck with her afterward. Pushing up along her ribs. Clogging her throat.

Santana.

As she rounded the last turn, she could see a dark ponytail and a flash of red and white. A grin peeled across her lips and she forced her fingers white-knuckled around the handlebars to keep steady. She finished her lap and rode past the line, all the way across the grass. She pulled up only a few feet away from Santana.

"San?"

She tucked her helmet under her arm and studied Santana with a frown. She'd never seen the expression Santana was wearing; it was as if she had taken a random selection of feelings and stitched them all together into something Brittany couldn't recognize. She thought she saw fear, and maybe pain, but mostly something that squinted up her dark eyes and seemed to pinch at her throat so that she had to keep swallowing. It looked like she was full of something she couldn't pour out.

"Hey, Britt," she said, and her smile was strange. "Sorry I was late." She offered Brittany a full water bottle and curled her fingers gently around the helmet.

Brittany smiled gently as they traded. Santana's face was settling into something more familiar—but only slowly. Brittany tried to coax it out. "Thanks," she replied, keeping her voice bright. "How'd I do?"

Santana's eyes flickered over her face. Searching. "What do you mean, Britt-Britt? You finished first." Her tone was guarded. It was obvious Brittany did well.

Brittany just shrugged and walked her bike toward the club shed. "I left my backpack," she realized aloud halfway there, but Santana just smiled at her and held up Brittany's black and pink bag. Brittany smiled back. Bashful. "Oh. Thanks."

"Yeah." Santana was giving her that strange look again. Brittany could swear Santana's eyes jumped down to her lips for a second. It was too quick to be sure. Santana slung Brittany's bag over one shoulder and nodded toward the parking lot. "Let's get going."

Brittany wondered if the strange look—the patchwork of worry and feeling—was going to keep coming back. She wondered if she would ever get to know what it meant.

She wished Santana would tell her.


End file.
